Woken by the sharp burn
of moonlight on her face
she moves to the window,
sees searchlights unearthing
the season’s rabbits,
then remembers the child.
 
The last time she’d gone out
she lost her slippers in the river
so now her bare feet carry her
down the stairs, along the hallway
over the patio and into a night
cut with gunshot.
 
She digs at the edge of the lawn
with a spade first,
then with her hands
to be closer to her work.
By dawn, there are little mounds of earth,
but still no child.
 
She tidies herself up in time
to make Bluebeard’s porridge.
She watches him emerge from the fields,
his mossy boots soaked with dew,
a string of rabbit pelts at his waist;
all their open eyes.